Aconite
by Nyzoe
Summary: 'I don't need your help, Mudblood,' he managed through clenched teeth – but the word tasted bitter on his tongue, like the flesh of some animal slaughtered for a ritual that had lost its meaning. She just smiled, quietly. 'Yes, you do.' Postwar HrD ficlet
1. One

_Ok, here I should be working on getting the next chapter of 'Weak' up, and instead I wrote this. Well, at least it's something. _

_Disclaimer for the whole story:__ I don't own anything except for this particular story plot, and even that has probably been done a hundred times before - oh well._

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**Aconite**

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**1**

It was no ordinary wound. She knew it as soon as she removed the blood-soaked towel with which he had clumsily covered it and she could smell it, the foul stench of evil magic that came from it, that was running through his veins already. It took her some effort to keep her face straight.

His eyes weren't entirely closed. Instead, his eyelids fluttered rapidly like the wings of a bird struggling for freedom, and his ashen face was contorted with barely restrained pain. He had bitten his lips so viciously they had started bleeding.

A disturbing sight. If only he'd just whimper and whine and cry that he was going to die – then at least she'd know he _wasn't_. But this time he wasn't acting.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Of course she had recognized him, even after years and with the way he looked now, more colourless than ever, save for the ragged, crimson mess that was his arm. But strangely, the first thing that had struck her was that he was alone. There were no Crabbe and Goyle on either side of him and even the shadow of his father, that had always seemed to loom over him perpetually, had vanished. He looked small.

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Trying to swallow away the bad taste in her mouth, she said hoarsely, 'Take him to the Llewellyn Ward.'

At the sound of her voice, he opened his eyes. She watched as recognition dawned on his face, watched as he grabbed the towel, wrapped it hastily around his arm again. She knew exactly what the gesture meant, but she didn't mind. He would need something to hold on to – a belief that would stand when his world crumbled around him, a mantra to repeat to himself every day until he would be strong enough to let it go. Maybe he would never be strong enough.

'Hello, Malfoy,' she said.

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He did not respond at first. Something inside him was protesting in rage at this twisted turn of fate, that _she_ of all people would be here to watch him wake into a new life – how she would treat him with meticulous care as she treated everything with meticulous care, while her eyes would tell him he got what he deserved. Another part of him was hesitatingly stepping back from the abyss of utter loneliness in which it had almost thrown itself, though he didn't really know why.

She stood beside him again, carrying a tray full of colourful vials. 'Give me your arm,' she commanded.

He was feeling numb by now, and black dots had started to obscure his vision. There was an iron-like taste of blood in his mouth and he tried to lick his lips for more – why? – but his tongue felt like leather, and his arm began to sting again, and it seemed that all he saw was the lime green of Granger's tunic and how it hurt his eyes.

Eventually, when she was about to walk out of the room, the abyss opened itself again right in front of him, and he realized he was going to plunge into it head first. In a last effort, he struggled to open his eyes and look at her. 'I don't need your help, Mudblood,' he managed through clenched teeth – but the word tasted bitter on his tongue, like the flesh of some animal slaughtered for a ritual that had lost its meaning. She stood still, turned around to face him and just smiled, quietly. 'Yes, you do. This time you do.'

Then she left, and things went black.


	2. Two

**2**

Slowly, hour by hour, day by day, things started coming back to him. Granger visited his ward a lot, to check on his wound and force him to drink foul-smelling potions from ugly pewter goblets bearing the equally ugly St. Mungo's weapon, in fact everything and everyone around him was ugly but he was too tired to complain.

There were moments he studied Granger when she wasn't looking. She was ugly too, in her shapeless Healer's tunic and practical flat shoes. Her hair was short now, probably for practical reasons too. He would look at her and words would form in his head, _Mudblood, inferior, worthless, my father says, pride, Malfoy._ Then, once, he pushed her pewter goblet away so the contents spilled all over her but she cleaned up the mess without a word. Only a look that said she was superior to him, which wasn't true, but he hated her for giving him the feeling it actually _was_. If only for a second.

'We let your mother know you're here,' she said on the morning of the second day.

'You talked to my mother,' he replied with all the contempt he could muster.

She was not impressed. 'We've sent her an owl, actually.'

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

_We sent her an owl, but she refuses to see you, says you're not her son anymore, and it serves you right for being perfectly beastly to Harry for years, and Ron, I'm not even talking about Ron, you disgusting little… ferret –_

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'We've sent her an owl, and she'll be here as soon as possible.'

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His mother came, all paleness and tears and stylish robes, and she threw herself on his bed with a cry polished by years of sophisticated suffering. 'Oh Draco! How could this happen? Who was it? Did he –'

'She. She tracked me down.' Her presence weighed heavily on him, she was too close, he couldn't look anywhere or the tearstained blue eyes and the caressing hands of his mother were present. He felt his arm starting to hurt again. He wished she'd just be silent, he wished she wouldn't keep forcing him to state the obvious when it cost him so much energy to speak.

'She?'

'Yes. Remember Fenrir Greyback?'

Slowly, he saw his mother's eyes widen in the beginning of understanding. He managed a wry smile. 'She was his lover. I guess she got her revenge.'

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She watched them together, mother and son: how Narcissa cried and stroked her son's hand and adjusted his pillow and covers for the umpteenth time. Useless gestures. She almost pitied Narcissa, the way she looked so powerless and helpless, the way the only person she'd ever loved besides herself tried to shake off her hand in growing annoyance…

They payed no attention to her returning to the room, maybe they weren't even aware of it. She was about to cough modestly to signal her presence when she heard Narcissa say in a low voice, 'But that Healer, Draco? Isn't she that Mudblood girl from your class? How are you ever supposed to get better with _her_ taking care of you? I –'

Her hands clenched to fists and she stepped forward. 'I'm sorry, Mrs Malfoy, but visiting hours are over. I have to change Draco's bandages now.'

She ignored the venomous look that Narcissa shot her when she left and started unwinding the bandage from Draco's arm. Her jaw was tight and her movements were rapid and resolute.

'You're hurting me,' he said.

'Sorry.'

A short silence.

'So, you were the one who killed Greyback,' she said after a while.

He looked at her. 'Surprised?'

'A bit.'

'Never expected me to do something even remotely heroic, did you?'

'Do you want me to be honest?'

He didn't answer her question, but continued maliciously: 'Looks like I've been more useful in the war than your friend Weasley.'

She reacted as if a wasp had stung her: she jumped up instantly, her eyes shooting fire. 'Don't you ever – _ever_ – insult Ron in my presence,' she hissed. 'He has always been ten times the man you are and you know it. Change your own bandages.'

She threw the roll of gauze bandage down on his bed and stomped out of the room. Two minutes later, another Healer entered and silently finished the job.

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Strange, how she had always been able to forgive him everything he had said and done to her, while even the smallest insult to Harry or Ron had been enough for her to hate him for weeks. She still remembered them, all those times Malfoy had laughed at Ron's family and Ron had stood there, trembling with the sheer force of his anger, his face red, spluttering incoherently, and hours later he'd still be talking about it and come up with a thousand things he _should have said_ – and every time she'd felt the urge to kill Malfoy, to Crucio him until he'd know the meaning of suffering.

And even now, when Ron couldn't even attempt to defend himself anymore, he wouldn't stop. She knew it was irrational to blame Malfoy for what happened to Ron simply because he was still alive while Ron wasn't. But then, even she could allow herself to be irrational sometimes.

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She didn't talk to him for two days. The only sounds he heard now were her footsteps, rubber soles on the stone floor, the scribbling of her quill on her clipboard, the metallic sound of empty pewter cups being placed back on her tray, and the ticking of the clock.

He thought it'd drive him crazy.

Then, on the morning of the sixth day, she spoke to him again. 'You cried in your sleep last night,' she said with the smallest of triumphant smiles.

His eyes darkened, and he turned his head to the wall and didn't respond.

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Being irrational didn't give her half the satisfaction she hoped for, and eventually she found herself disgusted that she had even felt satisfaction at all, and all she was left with was pity at the young man in the hospital bed who was unable to face his future because he had never learned to be strong.

That evening she allowed herself to smile at him, and though he didn't return it, his wolfish grey eyes locked with hers for the tiniest of seconds before he looked away from her.

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She brought him some books to read, a scratch collection of both Wizarding an Muggle novels and some volumes on healing magic.

'Thanks,' he said reluctantly, turning over the pages of one of the novels.

'You're welcome. You won't need them for long, though. I think you'll be able to go home in one or two days.'

He swallowed._ Home_. To be on his own again, not yet knowing who he had become and not knowing how to face the world around him through his new eyes. Not to be safe anymore, here in the ugly but comforting Llewellyn Ward, where a light would always be on somewhere and someone would rush to his bed when he called. Even if that someone was Hermione Granger, who had just given him a book titled _Forbidden Passion at Gringotts_.

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Suddenly, he broke the silence. 'I wonder… what it will be like?'

She lowered the clipboard she was scribbling on. 'Lycanthropia,' she said. Her voice had some of the eagerness he recognized from all the times she'd known the right answer in class. 'Before the invention of Wolfsbane, it was a far more dangerous condiction. However, if you take the potion in time before your transformation, you'll be able to retain your self-control. You _will_ probably notice some wolfish traits that will grow stronger as the full moon approaches. Heightened senses, a stronger physical reaction to emotion and insomnia are well-documented side-effects…'

He interrupted her, a sharp edge to his voice. 'You don't know anything about it. You have no idea what it will be like.'

There was a short, heavy silence, in which she studied her clipboard intently and he suddenly realized how much he hated that horrible practical haircut of hers. Then she looked up again, her brown eyes thoughtful and a little sad. 'You're right,' she said. 'I have no idea.'

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Not much later, when she was replenishing the stock in the ward's potions cabinet, she heard him call her name.

'What is it, Malfoy?' she asked, turning around.

He refused to meet her eyes. 'I was, er, wondering…' he began hesitatingly, as if it cost him great effort to say what he had to say, 'whether you could ask Remus Lupin to come over.'

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_I've slightly altered this chapter to make the hints about what happened to Draco somewhat more obvious. Review if you have anything useful to say about the story; constructive criticism & comments on my English are more than welcome. Flames too, but anonymous flamers are cowards.  
_


	3. Three

That night, he awoke from a dream he couldn't remember, although he found himself unable to shake the vague but disturbing feeling that he had dried blood under his fingernails. He spent a considerable time biting them to the skin, the sound of them splintering between his teeth comforting and nauseating him at the same time. When it was over, he was fully awake, and the last vestiges of the dream had faded as the grey light of dawn crept into the room.  
Knowing he would not go to sleep again, he randomly took a book from the pile Granger had brought him, found his wand in one of the drawers and whispered, 'Lumos'.

The next morning, Hermione found the floor around Malfoy's bed covered in parchment – pages and pages, meticulously shredded, fragments of pictures still discernable here and there, flashing white teeth and disembodied winking eyes. He had not managed to tear the cover apart as well. It was lying not far from the door of the ward, its spine cracked.  
She could not hold back a gasp. Malfoy was looking at her from the bed, pale and defiant. Her first thought was that he was simply bullying her – in such crude ways as were available to him here – and it occurred to her that the book might have been a Muggle novel, but that couldn't be, the pictures were moving –  
She stooped to pick up the book cover. When she looked at Malfoy again, his mouth was set in the same thin line, but there was a barely detectable twitch to it, a struggle just below the surface, the faintest hint of some other emotion. Was it fear?  
And then she looked at the book she was holding and understood.  
The title was _Prefects Who Gained Power._ On the cover were a handsome young witch and wizard in expensive-looking robes. Both were brandishing gleaming Hogwarts prefect badges. The witch gazed at hers affectionately, as if overcome by beautiful memories, while the wizard flashed a winning smile as he held his badge up to the viewer. She recognised the book – Percy Weasley had owned it, and she remembered leafing through it at the Burrow once.

...The Burrow. Ron. She remembered the day _they_ had received their prefect badges – how she had been confused at first, thinking it had been her and Harry, a mistake she had felt guilty about for almost the entire year – she _knew_ that Ron often thought she preferred Harry, and more than anything she wanted him to know that wasn't true, but instead she had only made it worse. Why had it taken them so long? They could've had at least a few years together, had she realised sooner, had she swallowed her stupid stubborn pride and just _told _him. Ron – yet another prefect who would never gain power. Would never gain anything, would never smile or wink again. A prefect who had lost. Was lost.

She had tightened her grip on the book cover almost without noticing it. The job might have been too tough for a wounded werewolf, but she had two healthy arms, and it was almost too easy to rip the cover in two along its cracked spine and drop its maimed remains at her feet.  
'You were right,' she said, the steadiness of her own voice surprising her. 'You were absolutely right. That book deserved to be torn to shreds.'

He watched her gather the shredded bits of parchment with one wave of her wand, creating a small tornado of bits and pieces of former Hogwarts prefects that she directed into a waste bin with a strangely unreadable expression on her face. He had not expected this. He had imagined she'd be angry – the Granger he knew would've gone absolutely _mental_ – books were practically her only friends.

Had she understood?

The thought of a Granger who understood him, _pitied_ him, was infinitely worse than hearing her yell at him. If she had realised that he couldn't bear looking at that stupid book – if she knew he hadn't torn it apart just to spite her –

A strange fury welled up in him. What right did she have to understand him? To presume they could have some sort of bonding moment because of a bloody book? And then he saw his last straw and grabbed at it.  
'Are you _crying_, Granger?'

She was. Even though she hated being so weak it in front of Malfoy, she hadn't been able to stop the tears. As she had quickly wiped them away with the back of her hand, she'd caught him staring at her, and the thought had even crossed her mind that he might understand, that the book might have changed something, that he might leave her alone just this once. And then she saw the old smirk reappear on his pale, tired face.

Draco Malfoy smirked. It felt almost comfortable, like putting on an old and familiar item of clothing he hadn't worn for some time. But it was also, more than ever, a mask, and part of him knew it and hated himself and her even more. 'I'm so sorry Granger,' he said. 'I forgot that books are your only friends.'

She grew pale, but her eyes – tears still shining in the corners – narrowed dangerously. _If this is how he wants to play it, so be it. _She sent the last bit of parchment into the bin with a flick of her wrist, put her wand into the pocket of her healer's robe and turned towards the bed. 'Funny to hear you mention friends, Malfoy. Where are yours? Only your mother has come to visit you, and only once. What about your fiancée?'  
'Don't you dare talking about my fiancée – '  
But she was unstoppable, and it suddenly felt so good to hurt him, to stoop to his level for once. Life was definitely simpler there – no grand questions of right and wrong, just your emotions and acting on them. 'Your engagement was all over the Daily Prophet a while ago. Pretty girl. But it seems she doesn't love you that much after all, does she? Not even Moaning Myrtle is here for you this time – '  
'Shut the hell up, Mudblood!' Draco was yelling now, his smirk gone, his calm superiority forgotten.  
'My, what unbefitting language for a Malfoy – '  
'Are you as stupid as you are ugly? _I'm not a Malfoy anymore_!'  
'That is not true, Draco,' said a calm voice. 'You will always be a Malfoy. You will always be yourself.'

Hermione hardly dared to look at Lupin when she sneaked past him on her way out of the ward. She felt embarrassed to the bone – losing her temper and fighting with a patient was bad enough, but being caught at it by someone she knew and respected made it even worse.  
And why? Malfoy had said much worse things to her in the past, things both more mean and more true, that she hadn't even batted an eyelash at. But this time was different. This time she had felt vulnerable – had _allowed_ herself to feel vulnerable, right in front of him. She'd thought they had understood each other, and that he might –

have changed. Well, obviously he had changed, but not just in _that_ way – it was as if something had shifted, almost unnoticeably, in the balance of his life, such that things that had always seemed very important to him now seemed vaguely puzzling, and questions he had never really asked himself now kept nudging him in the back of his mind.  
He would have to think more about those things, later.

She wasn't hiding, not really – there were files to check, potion dosages to be calculated, it was all very natural that she should be here in her office with the blinds drawn. Still, the knock on the door made her jump. 'Come in', she said in a voice that sounded much too light and too high.  
It was Remus, of course, looking shabby as always in his patched-up cloak. He closed the door behind him with much more care and attention than necessary; she realised he was giving her time to get used to his presence and compose herself.  
But she decided not to pretend. 'God, Remus, I feel so embarrassed that you had to see that.'  
He turned to her and smiled. 'Don't worry about it. I used to be his teacher, remember? He must be more insufferable than ever, confined to a hospital bed and completely dependent on someone as wise and level-headed as you.'  
'I don't know if he is. More insufferable than ever, I mean. Well, he was, just now. But it's true – no one comes to visit him and most of the time he just looks – alone. And sad.'  
Remus studied her for a moment. Then he said, 'He refused all the help I offered him.'  
'But he asked you to come, didn't he? And you've been in there for a while.'  
'I think,' said Remus, 'that you should go and see him. Don't look so alarmed - I trust you completely. And you're his Healer, anyway – it's your job to go and see him.'  
'I can't say I'm feeling very professional at the moment.'  
'Remember some of the states you've seen me in,' he said quietly. 'We all have so much past. And we need to let go of it.'

Draco barely looked up when she came in.  
'Hi,' Hermione said.  
'Hi.'  
They took care to avoided each other's eyes – Hermione busied herself adjusting small things about the room, and Draco looked at his hands.  
'How are you?' she asked eventually.  
'Fine.'  
'What did Remus say?' She regretted the question immediately, it was too personal, she should have avoided mentioning Remus like she was avoiding mentioning their fight. But to her suprise, Draco answered. 'He said I could stay with him and Nymphadora, the first full moon. So I won't have to be alone when... when it happens.'  
'That's nice of them,' Hermione said, still not entirely sure whether to stick to breezy smalltalk or – God, there was so much to say, and she should say it, but she just wasn't sure she could. 'But you're family, after all.'  
'Don't be ridiculous,' he muttered. 'Anyway, I told him I didn't need his help.'  
'And what did he say to that?'  
'_I know_.'

They were silent again while she changed his bandages and laid out a row of potion flasks at the small table next to his bed. But Draco was now looking at her. He was studying her motions and even her face with an uncharacteristic care that she tried not to be aware of, as if he, too, was trying to answer a question that he just couldn't ignore any longer.

On her way out of the ward, she suddenly turned around. 'Listen, Malfoy, I'm sorry. I know your friends care about you.'  
His eyes narrowed, and it took him a while before he replied. 'You know they don't. You know they were never my friends.'  
She didn't say anything, but just stared at her hands. An incredible tiredness had washed over her, rooting her to the spot.  
The silence was not uncomfortable.  
'I'm sorry he died,' Draco said then, in an almost inaudible voice. 'Weasley, I mean.'  
Hermione was wiping away tears now, silent but annoying tears that wouldn't stop coming. Without really knowing what she was doing, she sank down onto a chair next to his bed.  
'Life just isn't fair,' Draco said, bravely attempting a shrug.  
'But we're still here, aren't we? It has to mean something, that we're still here.'  
'We're alive. I suppose.'  
'I don't want anyone to get hurt again. Ever.'  
'It's not going to happen, Granger. People get hurt all the time.'  
'I know.'

And awkwardly, almost roughly, he took her hand and did not let go. She did not mind. She felt she could sit here, beside the werewolf's bed, for a very long time.

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_I'm sorry this took so insanely long – I had almost finished the third chapter five (my goodness! five!) years ago but then I lost it in a hardware crash (along with most of my other writings of the past few years). It took me a while to recover from the subsequent writer's block and reconstruct the chapter as best as I could, but here you go. While the stylistic discontinuity is partly intentional – I was trying to reflect Draco's state of mind as he slowly grows more lucid, and gradually move from the switching POVs towards a more neutral omniscient narration – some of it might be the result of the five-year gap, the rustiness of my proverbial pen & the fact that I pretty much had to force myself to finish it. I'm also not sure if I made the backstory sufficiently clear. Anyway – let me know what you thought, concrit makes me happy._


End file.
